Hibernal 🔮💘 𝓕𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓾𝓷𝓮 𝓣𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓻'𝓼 𝓣𝓮𝓷𝓽 💔🔮

[Chele]

The job was less than two weeks away, yet she had so many questions. Much of what she was to do was left vague, but she did know that she was to be protecting the daughter of the villa owner. Amber eyes stared blankly forward while she used a knife to cut away a piece of apple. With the juices clinging to the side of the tool, she lifted it up to pop the apple slice into her mouth. Slowly, she chewed but stopped when there was a door that suddenly appeared in front of her roughly ten feet away. A thin brow rose as others walked past it without even taking notice. Her chewing would continue but far slower than it had initially been. After a few seconds, the door swung open.

Swallowing the bit of apple, she shrugged her shoulders causing red curls to shift and fall down her back. “Why not,” she muttered. The apple was tossed over a fence toward the pigs that snorted and sniffed only to squeal at their small snack. She wiped the sides of the knife on the side of dark brown doeskin pants that covered the outside of her calf then pushed the blade into its sheath that hung on her belt. With a push to her feet, she languidly moved toward the open door and stepped inside. As she did, she heard the door shut behind her with a click. “Huh,” she said without much enthusiasm.

The dusty streets and cheap stone and plaster buildings were out of sight and out of mind. Instead, she stood in a tent. The dirt was even different. Her left booted foot toed at the dirt while her eyes trailed along the top of the tent. “Pretty fancy,” she mused. Sera wasn’t used to the finer things, though whether it was considered something finer wasn’t exactly on her mind. She’d let her gaze dip back down to eye level so it could scan in front of her. “Tell me I lucked out and got magically teleported to a nicer life,” she said quietly. The redhead could be hopeful, but she doubted that she was correct. Taking on a new life didn't seem so bad, all things considered.

No longer having to spend her days playing guard to travelers wouldn't be the worst thing to happen. Maybe a life where heavy concentration wasn't involved. Or just not being a glorified babysitter; wouldn't that be nice? Hands still sticky from the juices of the apple were pushed down the sides of her legs to attempt to rid them of that stickiness. At least she would be doing wash later that day. Unless ...

 

[GremlinSage]

Another chill runs fown Aimi's spine as she listens to the words spoken, somewhat cryptic and yet there's no denying how close to the mark that they hit. Her eyes widen nearly imperceptively as the shadows, gentle and yet chilling, brush a few rebellious strands of hair from her eyes. A part of her was sunk and she knew it. She had always been far too curious for her own good, even as a catfolk.

Before she can open her mouth to respond, the ruckus of the ducks making their exit temporarily steals her attention, her gaze shifting, albeit reluctantly, from the woman in front of her to the exit. She catches a glimpse of ruffling feathers, feathers that seemed an odd color for a duck, but before her mind can fully process many details, they were gone.

Blinking in a mixture of amusement and a bit of confusion, she shifts her attention back to Cordelia, the corners of her lips curving up ever so slightly in the hint of a smile. She should stand up and walk away, never looking back. It was most likely the wisest of options. There was something wrong with this place, something she couldn't quite put a paw on... But she had never been one to listen to her more logical side.

"Well," she softly purrs, "you know what they say about cats and curiosity... If I were to leave, would I be able to find this place again? I don't recall ever seeing this tent aside from today and, well... I'd hate for you to be reduced to a memory so soon..."

Cordelia

.

.

If only her smile could curl in the same way the Cheshire cat's did...

For Cordelia, it was a shame. She wouldn't be allowed to keep the neko, nor would it live very long if it stayed with her. Besides, one of these pests might take Aimi just to save her.

Cordelia feigned a quiet, sorrowful hum, giving a slow wave of her hand over the table. The bones slid obediently into place near her fingers.

"Unfortunately, kitten," She murmured, "the likelihood of finding this place again after leaving is... extraordinarily slim."

Cold shadows spilled across the cloth, dimming the scattered shapes until only pale fragments remained visible. Cordelia studied them with a softened expression, almost tender, and far more dangerous.

"The bones are kind to you," she said at last.

A pause.

"They say you will be loved for a very long time." Her gaze lifted to Aimi's face. "Long enough to grow restless." Quieter now, "Long enough to wonder what might have happened if you had stayed somewhere you shouldn't."

The shadows receded with a slow breath, as though the tent itself had exhaled despite the chaos surrounding them.

Her smile returned, indulgent. "But curiosity doesn't always kill the cat," she added softly. "Sometimes... it simply sends her home." Cordelia nudged the bones into stillness with one finger, the sound barely a whisper.

"Go back to the one who is waiting for you, before this place remembers how much it likes you."

With a final cant of her head, Cordelia's smile widened again, "And if you do find this tent again someday..." Green eyes glimmered faintly, "...come in quietly."

 

[MioBrave]

Max takes a deep breath, adjusting the strap of his guitar case on his shoulder. Amber eyes blink up at the massive tent in front of him, then they flick down to the flier in his hand. The Downtown Fair and Festival. Precarious rides. Concessions that are too sweet, too salty, too greasy or some combo of the three. Games which are certainly rigged. All made complete with the addition of a fortune tellers’ tent.

Now the freckled red head just needs to get up the nerve to go in. ‘Come on Maxie. It’s not like you’re directly confessing to the guy. You’re just here for some insight from a complete stranger. Or just a boost of courage. Something like that.’ He takes a deep breath, the flier crumpling in his hand a little as he braces himself.

The flap rustles a hello as he brushes inside. The young man’s eyes go wide as he takes it all in. This is certainly a lot more than he was expecting. A pug sporting denim. Ducks in unnatural colors. Purple smoke and smiling shadows. He nearly stumbles as a woman with rich magenta skin passes by him. ‘What is this place?’

He tentatively steps forwardly, head swiveling as he tries to figure out where to even go in here. He feels rather basic and plain. He isn’t roughed up. No weapons. No magic. No scars or deep backstory. He’s just a plain human in worn jeans, a band tee and a hoodie with far too many tears from the years. Shoot, even his possible questions are basic. He just wants help confessing to the cute barista at the café he often plays at.

 

[Batcat]

Cordelia

.

.

If only her smile could curl in the same way the Cheshire cat's did...

For Cordelia, it was a shame. She wouldn't be allowed to keep the neko, nor would it live very long if it stayed with her. Besides, one of these pests might take Aimi just to save her.

Cordelia feigned a quiet, sorrowful hum, giving a slow wave of her hand over the table. The bones slid obediently into place near her fingers.

"Unfortunately, kitten," She murmured, "the likelihood of finding this place again after leaving is... extraordinarily slim."

Cold shadows spilled across the cloth, dimming the scattered shapes until only pale fragments remained visible. Cordelia studied them with a softened expression, almost tender, and far more dangerous.

"The bones are kind to you," she said at last.

A pause.

"They say you will be loved for a very long time." Her gaze lifted to Aimi's face. "Long enough to grow restless." Quieter now, "Long enough to wonder what might have happened if you had stayed somewhere you shouldn't."

The shadows receded with a slow breath, as though the tent itself had exhaled despite the chaos surrounding them.

Her smile returned, indulgent. "But curiosity doesn't always kill the cat," she added softly. "Sometimes... it simply sends her home." Cordelia nudged the bones into stillness with one finger, the sound barely a whisper.

"Go back to the one who is waiting for you, before this place remembers how much it likes you."

With a final cant of her head, Cordelia's smile widened again, "And if you do find this tent again someday..." Green eyes glimmered faintly, "...come in quietly."

The slender black tail twitches and swishes behind her as Aimi contemplates the words that had been spoken by Cordelia, her lips forming into a soft smile. She knows that it's time to take her leave, most likely while she is still able to, yet she can't bring her legs to move. At least not yet. Instead, she nods slightly. "Thank you. I'll keep an eye out for this place in the future. Even if curiosity were to kill the cat, satisfaction brings it back, after all."

Winking at the woman, Aimi turns and heads for the exit, but before she can turn around fully, her form shifts back into that of a small black house cat. The cat moves to the entrance, pausing only long enough to look back one last time, before scurrying back out into the outside world.

 

[firefly]

Talia nearly jumped as a wild character of a woman made herself known from across the room. Talia hadn't realized how long she had been stationed at the entrance as her attention was on the various characters exclaiming and rushing about.uch

Once beckoned over, Talia glanced around herself, ensuring it was in fact her that the lady was talking to before walking over to the table. She slowly sat where directed.

"Future regret?" Talia's brow raised with slight concern. Maybe this was a bad idea. She didn't even know what she wanted when coming in here but so far she was regretting her choice. How fitting.

Shifting in her seat, Talia let her hands rest in her lap, thumbs running one over another. Her gaze fell as she watched her hands. "I want to know... I guess I want to ask... does he..." talia paused, unable to speak her mind. She knew what she wanted to ask but felt foolish to do so. There were more important things to ask a fortune teller, no?

With a small shake of her head she decided quickly to just ask something and leave. "Where is my life going?" She looked up expectantly, studying the short woman before her. She was quite the character and Talia was surprised by how much she trusted this strangers judgement and words.

Brünnhilde

.

.

Ahh yes, what better question to pose to the tent Babushka than one so vague and vulnerable?

"Path of life, child, is no easy answer, yes?" Brünnhilde replied, suddenly noticing the toppled candles and adjusting them. "The life, it go this way, then that way, then over the hill or into pond where you find bunch of little shit fae ducks and then they in cart and eating all of bread and now they in tent and they shit all over table cloth."

As if to punctuate her sentence, one of the culprits nearby gave a (very annoyingly cute) quack! and she thrust herself forward to cover as much of the table with her arms lest the mischief maker attempt to hop onto it. She watched it waddle away with a resentful side-eye.

"But, if it helps with all of this," she said, again making the awful worried expression and gesturing wildly at the girl's face, "Then old Brünnhilde do read for you, ok?"

Rising from her chair, which again was unfortunately not very obvious since she remained at more or less the same height, the teller spread her arms and the small semi circle of misshapen candles on her table burst into flame, casting a host of rather unflattering shadows onto her face. What the customer may not have known is that had the candles been properly maintained, the shadows would have actually been very flattering, but that is neither here nor there for the purposes of this story (although she strongly suspected the metal-headed buffoon of meddling with them and using them in some unsavoury way). One of them, a short, stumpy thing with large lumps of wax melting into the table, flickered out. Shooting a pointed glare between it and the tent entrance, Brünnhilde jumped down from the chair and began to rummage through a storage chest next to her table, mumbling angrily about something to do with drafts and flaps. Before long she was back up on the chair, this time with a crumpled matchbook.

"Come, come, give to me." She said, lighting the candle manually and leaning so much over the table that she was practically laying on it, her short legs hanging over the side (her torso was, as expected, very short so she needed to close the distance extensively). "No, child! Not that!" She grumbled, slapping away the hand that was offered, "The elbow! I must read the weenus."

Said so simply and as a matter of fact, like it were the most obvious thing in the world, the customer might have felt compelled to comply, albeit with much confusion.

What proceeded may not be fit to record in the annals of this event, what with the chanting, involuntary bodily convulsions, and weenus fondling, but at the end of it the teller slunk back into her seat, mopping her brow with the ends of her violet shawl.

"Aye! Please forgive, dear one, Aunt Brü not young matryoshka any more, eh?" She cackled to herself, settling the little bells along her shawl jingling joyfully, "But, the elbow, it speak to Brü. The folds, the stretch, all saying very much."

Brünnhilde sat back in her chair and reached into the front of her dress, rummaging around near her cleavage before pulling out a long smoking pipe with a triumphant grin. While packing and lighting it, she continued, but with a more mumbled and conversational tone as if she were speaking more to herself, "So unsettled, young one, temporarily everywhere, aye aye. Look at those feet! So obvious, never sleeping same place twice. Always running, running, from danger, responsibility, maybe love. Probably bullets."

She paused, lighting her pipe and taking a long pull while sinking further down into her seat and blowing smoke through her nostrils. Soon, she was merely a head poking up from the table. Lazily waving her hand around, mumbling another strange chant under her breath, the smoke swirled and danced above them, painting a picture only the woman could understand. "As to where you go, moushka, hmmm, not where you plan, no? You on path that start sensible, and you end very far away. Very, very far. Like, with bad food and no signal."

A loud pop! proceeded by a burst of candyfloss-coloured cloudburst announced the arrival of a fae duck, the same one as before, on the teller's table. It waddled to the edge, studied the mellowed Brünnhilde for a moment, then jumped foward, landing on the the woman's head. Brünnhilde gave a long-suffering sigh, exhaling a stream of smoke as she did so, as the fae duck ungracefully scrambled down to settle comfortably on the woman's ample bosom.

"And this you do, young one, all because of love, ya?"

A warmth had seeped into her tone now, and she gave the fae duck, now dozing on it's new comfortable perch, an affectionate pat with her free hand.

"Love not drive, no no, it grab wheel. It press gas and hurtle you forward, screaming and wishing you can get off ride and not die. You can't even ask direction because love likes get lost on purpose. Very annoying and inconvenient, no?"

Above the fortune teller's table, the stout head peeked just above it with the haze of smoke swirling above it like a brewing storm.

"Moushka, you cannot get off ride now. And even if you did, love would follow. It run with you. And is okay! You can run with love. You can hold hands with love, too, make falling less lonely, no? But remember," the teller added, wagging a finger at the girl and then making a zig-zag pattern in the air, "Don't run in straight line, ya? Always run this way that way. You confuse fate and then it gets tired and stop chasing. Also, if you see somebody running in straight line, do not trust them. They are too confident and fate will catch them. Or maybe they have the diarrhoea, I don't know."

She let silence fall across the table, just long enough that the customer might have assumed she'd fallen asleep, but with a little jerk of her bosom (which jostled the little fae duck and earned her a disgruntled quack!) she gasped and said, "Oh! One more thing. The weenus, it tell me you are lactose intolerant. Sorry Moushka, very sad. Now leave money here and go! Go, run! And remember, this way that way, ya?"

Brünnhilde dismissed the girl with a lazy wave of her hand, sinking even further down into her chair. One had to wonder, what exactly was in that pipe?

 

[Jumbled]

Max takes a deep breath, adjusting the strap of his guitar case on his shoulder. Amber eyes blink up at the massive tent in front of him, then they flick down to the flier in his hand. The Downtown Fair and Festival. Precarious rides. Concessions that are too sweet, too salty, too greasy or some combo of the three. Games which are certainly rigged. All made complete with the addition of a fortune tellers’ tent.

Now the freckled red head just needs to get up the nerve to go in. ‘Come on Maxie. It’s not like you’re directly confessing to the guy. You’re just here for some insight from a complete stranger. Or just a boost of courage. Something like that.’ He takes a deep breath, the flier crumpling in his hand a little as he braces himself.

The flap rustles a hello as he brushes inside. The young man’s eyes go wide as he takes it all in. This is certainly a lot more than he was expecting. A pug sporting denim. Ducks in unnatural colors. Purple smoke and smiling shadows. He nearly stumbles as a woman with rich magenta skin passes by him. ‘What is this place?’

He tentatively steps forwardly, head swiveling as he tries to figure out where to even go in here. He feels rather basic and plain. He isn’t roughed up. No weapons. No magic. No scars or deep backstory. He’s just a plain human in worn jeans, a band tee and a hoodie with far too many tears from the years. Shoot, even his possible questions are basic. He just wants help confessing to the cute barista at the café he often plays at.

Vedma Rozanov

.

.

Vedma was admiring the massive haul of trade items she’d landed from the magenta visitor. Most of the treasures already had new homes, tucked away in cubbies and proudly displayed on shelves. It was best not to question how shelving could be so secure, attached to nothing more than tent fabric and the occasional support beam, or what sorcery held things like beaded curtains in place—do that and things always start to fall. The tent was a magical place full of special (the most special) people.

She was stringing new yarn into the holes of her sign that had fallen on Deven earlier that day when she watched a new, blank sheet of paper manifest on her table. Footsteps drew nearer and she felt the energy around the paper shiver with the anticipation of folding into something meaningful.

“Patience, leaf. He comes.” Vedma was a little more put together by then, her headwrap was holding down hidden frizz that lived at the top of her head while her curls looked only half a mess as they had when standing up in the air. Her new glass unicorn was somehow standing up on one of her fingers with a band of light holding it in place like a ring. She put her cardboard down and moved her hands around the outside of her crystal ball, the green swirling awoke once again while Max was nudged inside by that one ruddy-headed duck that had made its return with a corndog in its beak. It waddled through the partition and off to make a food mess where such messes were always found.

“Come, sit.” Vedma pointed to a pile of cushions that were similar, but different pillows from the ones the alien woman had perched as the beaded curtain clacked gently behind her. The paper fluttered into the air like an excited butterfly flapping and twisting until it was in the shape of a standard guitar pick. The teller stood and plucked it from the air; this time there was no funny business, and her fish were content to swim freely as they pleased. Vedma held the paper for a moment then placed it into Max’s hands.

“Look at us two, like family. You play.” Vedma gestured to the guitar case and the paper pick and waited for a long pause as Max worked through whatever awkwardness he might have felt over the matter. As if Vedma had enchanted the instrument, each note vibrated with beautiful bursts of color, the crystal ball reacting to each beat and color change without fail.

“Music is beautiful, no? But it is not beautiful on its own. It needs care. Thought. The right notes at the right time. Like a hot drink, you put the syrups in first before you add cream that cools it. This is art.” Vedma petted the little unicorn on her finger. “Order and precision, so that you don’t end up with some Joe trying to propose to you, only to leave a stain in your life instead.”

Vedma touched the crystal ball with a few small taps. It turned into dark liquid notes of coffee mixing with cream, the gentle swirls combining into a brand new drink, still swaying in time to Max’s music.

“What a cute couple. One is the star and the other compliments and supports, they’re better together—otherwise you’re left blackened, bitter and alone in your cup. There are songs written about less.” Vedma rocked her shoulders and head—she did not possess the same rhythm the enchanted ball had. Then she grabbed two mugs from under the table and dipped them into the orb, one at a time, placing one in front of Max. “New experiences make good story. We only learn songs once they’re played.” Vedma took a long drink from her cup, and then as if she hadn’t been babbling to him for what felt like thirty minutes, she finally asked. “So what question do you have for Miss Vedma?”

 

[Lady_Botz]

Brünnhilde

.

.

Ahh yes, what better question to pose to the tent Babushka than one so vague and vulnerable?

"Path of life, child, is no easy answer, yes?" Brünnhilde replied, suddenly noticing the toppled candles and adjusting them. "The life, it go this way, then that way, then over the hill or into pond where you find bunch of little shit fae ducks and then they in cart and eating all of bread and now they in tent and they shit all over table cloth."

As if to punctuate her sentence, one of the culprits nearby gave a (very annoyingly cute) quack! and she thrust herself forward to cover as much of the table with her arms lest the mischief maker attempt to hop onto it. She watched it waddle away with a resentful side-eye.

"But, if it helps with all of this," she said, again making the awful worried expression and gesturing wildly at the girl's face, "Then old Brünnhilde do read for you, ok?"

Rising from her chair, which again was unfortunately not very obvious since she remained at more or less the same height, the teller spread her arms and the small semi circle of misshapen candles on her table burst into flame, casting a host of rather unflattering shadows onto her face. What the customer may not have known is that had the candles been properly maintained, the shadows would have actually been very flattering, but that is neither here nor there for the purposes of this story (although she strongly suspected the metal-headed buffoon of meddling with them and using them in some unsavoury way). One of them, a short, stumpy thing with large lumps of wax melting into the table, flickered out. Shooting a pointed glare between it and the tent entrance, Brünnhilde jumped down from the chair and began to rummage through a storage chest next to her table, mumbling angrily about something to do with drafts and flaps. Before long she was back up on the chair, this time with a crumpled matchbook.

"Come, come, give to me." She said, lighting the candle manually and leaning so much over the table that she was practically laying on it, her short legs hanging over the side (her torso was, as expected, very short so she needed to close the distance extensively). "No, child! Not that!" She grumbled, slapping away the hand that was offered, "The elbow! I must read the weenus."

Said so simply and as a matter of fact, like it were the most obvious thing in the world, the customer might have felt compelled to comply, albeit with much confusion.

What proceeded may not be fit to record in the annals of this event, what with the chanting, involuntary bodily convulsions, and weenus fondling, but at the end of it the teller slunk back into her seat, mopping her brow with the ends of her violet shawl.

"Aye! Please forgive, dear one, Aunt Brü not young matryoshka any more, eh?" She cackled to herself, settling the little bells along her shawl jingling joyfully, "But, the elbow, it speak to Brü. The folds, the stretch, all saying very much."

Brünnhilde sat back in her chair and reached into the front of her dress, rummaging around near her cleavage before pulling out a long smoking pipe with a triumphant grin. While packing and lighting it, she continued, but with a more mumbled and conversational tone as if she were speaking more to herself, "So unsettled, young one, temporarily everywhere, aye aye. Look at those feet! So obvious, never sleeping same place twice. Always running, running, from danger, responsibility, maybe love. Probably bullets."

She paused, lighting her pipe and taking a long pull while sinking further down into her seat and blowing smoke through her nostrils. Soon, she was merely a head poking up from the table. Lazily waving her hand around, mumbling another strange chant under her breath, the smoke swirled and danced above them, painting a picture only the woman could understand. "As to where you go, moushka, hmmm, not where you plan, no? You on path that start sensible, and you end very far away. Very, very far. Like, with bad food and no signal."

A loud pop! proceeded by a burst of candyfloss-coloured cloudburst announced the arrival of a fae duck, the same one as before, on the teller's table. It waddled to the edge, studied the mellowed Brünnhilde for a moment, then jumped foward, landing on the the woman's head. Brünnhilde gave a long-suffering sigh, exhaling a stream of smoke as she did so, as the fae duck ungracefully scrambled down to settle comfortably on the woman's ample bosom.

"And this you do, young one, all because of love, ya?"

A warmth had seeped into her tone now, and she gave the fae duck, now dozing on it's new comfortable perch, an affectionate pat with her free hand.

"Love not drive, no no, it grab wheel. It press gas and hurtle you forward, screaming and wishing you can get off ride and not die. You can't even ask direction because love likes get lost on purpose. Very annoying and inconvenient, no?"

Above the fortune teller's table, the stout head peeked just above it with the haze of smoke swirling above it like a brewing storm.

"Moushka, you cannot get off ride now. And even if you did, love would follow. It run with you. And is okay! You can run with love. You can hold hands with love, too, make falling less lonely, no? But remember," the teller added, wagging a finger at the girl and then making a zig-zag pattern in the air, "Don't run in straight line, ya? Always run this way that way. You confuse fate and then it gets tired and stop chasing. Also, if you see somebody running in straight line, do not trust them. They are too confident and fate will catch them. Or maybe they have the diarrhoea, I don't know."

She let silence fall across the table, just long enough that the customer might have assumed she'd fallen asleep, but with a little jerk of her bosom (which jostled the little fae duck and earned her a disgruntled quack!) she gasped and said, "Oh! One more thing. The weenus, it tell me you are lactose intolerant. Sorry Moushka, very sad. Now leave money here and go! Go, run! And remember, this way that way, ya?"

Brünnhilde dismissed the girl with a lazy wave of her hand, sinking even further down into her chair. One had to wonder, what exactly was in that pipe?

Talia almost looked disappointed as her question was met with an almost equally vague answer. Yes life moved unexpectedly and sure it had annoying ducks to poop on everything. Apparently talia wanted something more specific in her answer but would she have gotten that from a place like this?

She let her gaze fall slightly, her chest heavy still with the weight of confusion and guilt. It felt as soon as her gaze fell, the lady brought her back to full attention. Looking up, talia frowned as she referenced her worried expression. It took a deal of control to force an "unbothered" expression on her face to appear as I'd she wasn't a ball of worry. Her hand slowly crossed the table only to be slapped and her elbow yanked closer.

Elbow? She reads elbows?? Not talia really started to regret having come in here. She wasn't going to get answers. She was simply being played with. With the odd looking sucks and various characters in here, it was a surprise she didn't catch on that this was all a hame just by walking in.

Her arm felt stiff as the lady did whatever she did to her elbow. When her body part was returned to her, she mindlessly rubbed it with a furrowed brow. This was a very odd experience.

But despite her skepticism, she still found meaning in the short woman's ramblings. Running, sure you could call it that. Danger and bullets, yes, talia had dealt with it all so far. The woman seemed to list off every reason in the book as to why Talia could be running but somehow Talia looked over that and focused on the words that held meaning to her. A swindlers trick perhaps.

Her gaze fell once again at the mention of love. Was she doing all this for love? Could you call it that? A light blush rose to her cheeks as she imagined her companion sitting alone, waiting her return. Would she share what she was learning here? Her heart began to pound and increase in tempo as she though of him waiting for her. Perhaps she was in love.

The rest of the fortune being told came almost on deaf ears. The warnings were taken, perhaps noted for later. But Talia had failed to ask what she truly wanted to know and was thus feeling the disappointment that was entirely her own fault. Her mind was much to focused on the boy she failed to claim as anything nor admit feelings to.

She nodded her head absently, slowly rising from her chair. "Um. Thank you I guess" talia grabbed a small bill from her pants pocket and let it fall to the table. She gave the strange woman another examination before turning and exiting the tent. Standing outside, talia hovered for a moment in the cool, fresh air. The smoke from the woman's pipe had been making her head all hazey and she didn't realize this until stepping outside.

Turning around, talia wanted to steal one more look into the tent but it had suddenly vanished. What lay behind her now was a small field filled with dead grass. A winter chill swept down and around Talia, causing her to pull her jacket around herself again. Lactose intolerant. Never run straight. Everything she was doing was for love? What an odd excursion.

 

[Jumbled]

The circuits connecting copper dots inside of Zur could not decide if he was being given some divine truth, or if the soothsayer was simply very good at puns. (As for Vega, she mostly seemed distracted, a wondrous sparkle in her eyes as she watched the woman's hair slowly deflate. Zur, of course, was also forced to watch this. He didn't immediately understand its mechanism of action. That annoyed him.)

None of this proved she was psychic. That trick with the paper and the folding and the gravity -- well, there were about fifty two ways to micro-engineer an ornithopter. He'd been forced to watch Vega attempt and fail at least 6 of them. (She'd given up after discovering how long it took for an eyebrow to grow back.) The nebula inside the crystal ball also did little to impress him -- he tended to look much the same on his home console. He assumed her crystal was lined with an OLED display. How terribly outdated. He started to verbalize a scoff, which would come out as an electric squeal, which would almost certainly cause his wearer to rip him from her ear with no regard for either of their dignity. However...

He doubted that this red-headed Russian riddle-speaker been to Ovania-9. Maybe she had. Tourists loved it, after all. But to be the kind of person that would choose to explore Alleyway 428-C long enough to find that the Grill... Well, let's say she was a bit overdressed to be that kind of person. So why, then, did the sign so perfectly read "G lacti Gril ", with all of the right letters busted and darkened, and that mysterious dark stain on the brick facade in the shape of a walrus, and damn it if he didn't recognize a swirl of blue hair inside those windows. This is why, the next time Vedma spoke, both Zur and his wearer listened very closely, and very silently.

You know how to fly...

He did.

...life gets sticky from candied fingers...

It did.

...can you stay afloat?

Zur, without a display, had no facial expressions for Vedma to read. Vega, for her part, chewed on her lips and scrunched her eyes, cherry skin furrowing in a way that expressed some sort of bone-deep discomfort. The silence stretched and grew and pounded against her eardrums when the sleek black plastic of the thumb drive began to glisten in the light of the crystal ball. Ancient USB-A connector. RGB gamer lights. A tiny scratch in the plastic next to the loop where a handy strap might go. There seemed to be kind of wide eyed wonder, hope, desperation, terror, "what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck," going on between the two travelers. And, somehow, Zur could not summon a single shred of sarcasm.

Vega did not speak when the drive was placed in her palm. She stared at it, closed her fingers around it as if to hide it from all angles, and rose to her feet robotically. She opened her mouth as if to say something to the psychic, produced no sound, and then stared for suspiciously long time. Finally, she slung the strap of her bag off of her shoulder and unzipped it; the smell that escaped was strange even in the jumble of incense and smoke that filled the booth. A bit sour. Earthy. She needed something more air-tight for her stash.

Regardless, she began rummaging. The bag looked as if it had been packed by a petulant child "running away from home" with all of their favorite toys. One after another, she would find something from the bag and set it on the low table, nearly frantically. A strangely shaped gem with a glowing core. Two coins, both of them marked with the visage of a grinning woman with plumage on her antennae. A battered comic book, cover art depicting shapely Orion fleeing from a four-armed beast. (Neither of them seemed adequately clothed for running.) A weird looking cigarette. Two neon orange packets with Choco-Licorice written with far too much flourish. A copy of Schlaut's Guide to Cirilian Sea Life, the cover of which protrayed a fish much like the ones dancing in Vedma's bowl. Finally, a handful of trinkets so small that to list them would be a fool's errand. One of them seemed to be a tiny glass unicorn.

By the time she was done, Vega's bag was flat with near emptiness, and she still was only giving that same shell-shocked silence. It was Zur that spoke for her.

<... Commensurate value<. >

The two of them left slowly, quietly, but Vega couldn't help but turn for one last look at Vedma. She couldn't smile, but she offered a strange salute -- smallest finger straight, the other two bent to form an angular C shape along with her thumb. It didn't need to be reciprocated or understood, but it seemed to mean something very special.

The night felt different after they walked out of the tent. Brighter, and darker, and more alien. The two didn't know what to say to each other as they made their way back to the ship; sure enough, there it sat in the grass, glistening with river water and still just as rusty. Vega realized that the drive was still clenched in her fist, digging painfully into her palm. She let go. The two of them stared at it.

"Zur?"

< Captain. >

"That thing she said - "

< Don't. I'm not discussing the philosophy of human life with you again. You keep trying to tie it back to Superlative Shatter Sisters. >

"No, not that. Do we... can we... Are we going to tell him now? About the Oasis thing?"

There was a long silence. So long did it stretch that Vega began to activate the pod doors for boarding, pulling herself into the cramped starshooter. Her fingers were working away at firing up the command deck. The only sounds that followed were the beeps and buzzes of the ship coming back to life, and the clicks of a wire disconnecting from a small port at the base of the alien's skull. She fed the wire into the center console, and soon a pixelated face filled the screen, just enough to make out shaggy hair and dark, tired eyes. Its head seemed too heavy for its shoulders, slumped forth into a staticky shadow.

< No, we're not. >

Vega buried her face in her palm as the ship began to rock and Zur pulled them up into the sky. Her other hand was thumbing the synthetic cork of a smoky blue bottle. The flash drive had been clipped to a polymer cord around her neck for the time being. Its track of LEDs blitzed and shifted; bright, colorful, alluring, forever in a cycle -- fated never to escape its pre-determined pattern.

Vega began to drink.

- fin -​

If One Chose to Unfold a Paper Ship

 

[MioBrave]

Vedma Rozanov

.

.

Vedma was admiring the massive haul of trade items she’d landed from the magenta visitor. Most of the treasures already had new homes, tucked away in cubbies and proudly displayed on shelves. It was best not to question how shelving could be so secure, attached to nothing more than tent fabric and the occasional support beam, or what sorcery held things like beaded curtains in place—do that and things always start to fall. The tent was a magical place full of special (the most special) people.

She was stringing new yarn into the holes of her sign that had fallen on Deven earlier that day when she watched a new, blank sheet of paper manifest on her table. Footsteps drew nearer and she felt the energy around the paper shiver with the anticipation of folding into something meaningful.

“Patience, leaf. He comes.” Vedma was a little more put together by then, her headwrap was holding down hidden frizz that lived at the top of her head while her curls looked only half a mess as they had when standing up in the air. Her new glass unicorn was somehow standing up on one of her fingers with a band of light holding it in place like a ring. She put her cardboard down and moved her hands around the outside of her crystal ball, the green swirling awoke once again while Max was nudged inside by that one ruddy-headed duck that had made its return with a corndog in its beak. It waddled through the partition and off to make a food mess where such messes were always found.

“Come, sit.” Vedma pointed to a pile of cushions that were similar, but different pillows from the ones the alien woman had perched as the beaded curtain clacked gently behind her. The paper fluttered into the air like an excited butterfly flapping and twisting until it was in the shape of a standard guitar pick. The teller stood and plucked it from the air; this time there was no funny business, and her fish were content to swim freely as they pleased. Vedma held the paper for a moment then placed it into Max’s hands.

“Look at us two, like family. You play.” Vedma gestured to the guitar case and the paper pick and waited for a long pause as Max worked through whatever awkwardness he might have felt over the matter. As if Vedma had enchanted the instrument, each note vibrated with beautiful bursts of color, the crystal ball reacting to each beat and color change without fail.

“Music is beautiful, no? But it is not beautiful on its own. It needs care. Thought. The right notes at the right time. Like a hot drink, you put the syrups in first before you add cream that cools it. This is art.” Vedma petted the little unicorn on her finger. “Order and precision, so that you don’t end up with some Joe trying to propose to you, only to leave a stain in your life instead.”

Vedma touched the crystal ball with a few small taps. It turned into dark liquid notes of coffee mixing with cream, the gentle swirls combining into a brand new drink, still swaying in time to Max’s music.

“What a cute couple. One is the star and the other compliments and supports, they’re better together—otherwise you’re left blackened, bitter and alone in your cup. There are songs written about less.” Vedma rocked her shoulders and head—she did not possess the same rhythm the enchanted ball had. Then she grabbed two mugs from under the table and dipped them into the orb, one at a time, placing one in front of Max. “New experiences make good story. We only learn songs once they’re played.” Vedma took a long drink from her cup, and then as if she hadn’t been babbling to him for what felt like thirty minutes, she finally asked. “So what question do you have for Miss Vedma?”

Max finds himself nudged by one of the ducks into an eccentric partition. The whole area reminds him of his grandma's trinket shelves. When he sits amongst the pillows, he sinks in. He's a little stiff, a lot awkward. He takes a moment to just examine the paper guitar pick he's handed.

Amber irises flick up to Vedma when she tells him to play. 'With a paper pick?' He's hesitant, but.. He shifts to sit up and gets his guitar out. It's acoustic, old and well loved. There's an energy around it, obvious to the tellers in the tent if nobody else. This instrument has been owned once before him. He thinks for a moment, then starts to play a gentle tune.

He's surprised when the pick holds steady, as if it were real. Then he glaces up from the strings, taken by the colors. 'Magic. Real magic.' He exhales. He watches the crystal ball as the teller manipulates it, fascinated by every step of the process. Her words catch his attention, causing a soft red to drown out the freckles on his face. He pauses his playing to reach for the mug, fingers freezing momentarily when he notices the music keep playing without him. He cradles the mug in his hands, staring down into it for a moment. 'It smells familiar...'

He looks up to her again. "W-well, um..." She kind of already answered it, didn't she. We only learn songs once they're played. "Maybe.. If I do go for it, regardless however it turns out.. Will we learn and grow from each other?" He glances back into the cup, then at the paper pick held between his knuckles. "My step-mom told me that, even if you lose someone, to hold onto all you've learned with them so it's harder to regret. I guess.. I want some assurance that I won't have regrets, even if the outcome isn't what I may hope for."

 

[GremlinSage]

The job was less than two weeks away, yet she had so many questions. Much of what she was to do was left vague, but she did know that she was to be protecting the daughter of the villa owner. Amber eyes stared blankly forward while she used a knife to cut away a piece of apple. With the juices clinging to the side of the tool, she lifted it up to pop the apple slice into her mouth. Slowly, she chewed but stopped when there was a door that suddenly appeared in front of her roughly ten feet away. A thin brow rose as others walked past it without even taking notice. Her chewing would continue but far slower than it had initially been. After a few seconds, the door swung open.

Swallowing the bit of apple, she shrugged her shoulders causing red curls to shift and fall down her back. “Why not,” she muttered. The apple was tossed over a fence toward the pigs that snorted and sniffed only to squeal at their small snack. She wiped the sides of the knife on the side of dark brown doeskin pants that covered the outside of her calf then pushed the blade into its sheath that hung on her belt. With a push to her feet, she languidly moved toward the open door and stepped inside. As she did, she heard the door shut behind her with a click. “Huh,” she said without much enthusiasm.

The dusty streets and cheap stone and plaster buildings were out of sight and out of mind. Instead, she stood in a tent. The dirt was even different. Her left booted foot toed at the dirt while her eyes trailed along the top of the tent. “Pretty fancy,” she mused. Sera wasn’t used to the finer things, though whether it was considered something finer wasn’t exactly on her mind. She’d let her gaze dip back down to eye level so it could scan in front of her. “Tell me I lucked out and got magically teleported to a nicer life,” she said quietly. The redhead could be hopeful, but she doubted that she was correct. Taking on a new life didn't seem so bad, all things considered.

No longer having to spend her days playing guard to travelers wouldn't be the worst thing to happen. Maybe a life where heavy concentration wasn't involved. Or just not being a glorified babysitter; wouldn't that be nice? Hands still sticky from the juices of the apple were pushed down the sides of her legs to attempt to rid them of that stickiness. At least she would be doing wash later that day. Unless ...

Cordelia

.

.

Cordelia watched the neko leave with open reluctance, gaze lingering on the empty space she had vacated.

Then her attention drifted.

So many bodies. So many little stories wandering into the tent, ripe and restless. She had expected amusement tonight, but not to be spoiled for choice. That was when her eyes settled on Sera.

Watching.

The woman looked practical. Capable. Bored in the way people become when life has already disappointed them too many times. Cordelia studied her, wondering how much effort it would take to open her up...

A soft hum escaped her throat. The shadows along the table stirred, coiling lazily up Cordelia's arm like something waking from it's slumber.

"You like her?" She murmured to no one, glancing down at her palm as the darkness seeped back into itself obediently.

Then she was gone.

Cordelia reappeared behind Sera without hurry and without sound, arm sliding easily through the redhead's as though they had arrived together.

"There you are," she breathed, voice warm and close.

The scent of apple clung to Sera like a bright, ordinary thing that didn't belong here. She breathed the scent in with interest, eyes flicking briefly to the knife at her belt.

"Mm," Cordelia hummed. "Practical. Prepared." A faint smile. "I do hope you didn't bring any more apples. The ducks get terribly bold." Fingers tightened just enough to guide rather than ask. "Come, come," Cordelia murmured.

She steered Sera toward the table. "Let me tell your fortune." The shadows began to withdraw as they approached, revealing neatly stacked tarot cards and a careless pile of bones, pale and waiting. "You look like a woman with questions she pretends not to have."

Cordelia leaned over Sera's shoulder once she was seated, breath brushing at her ear; cool and intimate. "What would you like to know," she whispered, fingertips tracing lightly along the line of Sera's jaw, "before you decide you never should've asked?"

 

[dispatch]

Dillon (21 years old, cisgender male, straight-leaning but open-minded and bicurious) was brought up in the reservations around Nightmare Mountain National Park, and like most of the werewolves that had been resettled there over the last couple centuries, he imagined for most of his life that he would wind up working in the Park in one way or another—handling guests, ripping apart Anomalies, doing research, managing the environment and the park. With federal government jobs being what they were nowadays, and the tight-knit community surrounding the Park feeling stifling even in the best of times, Dillon decided to strike out on his own, at least for a while. He said goodbye to his people and then moved out of the woods and into the city, where he was able to get a job as a a janitor and attend a local night college to study criminal justice, with an eye on maybe becoming a detective—even with budget cuts, werewolves were in high demand for local police, and Dillon wanted to use his natural talents to help people.

All and all, it was a good plan… yet at this moment, Dillon was totally miserable.

Everything about the move, to put it simply, just plain sucked. The city was not agreeing with Dillon at all—the noise, the pollution, the traffic, he was unused to any of it and so it was all extra obnoxious. The air never tasted clean and no matter how many showers he took he never felt like he got the grime and dust off him (his chosen part-time profession definitely didn’t help matters). The place had plenty of charms and opportunities for fun, sure, but despite his best efforts, nothing was doing it for him—clubbing, sports, gaming bars, movies, museums, restaurants, none of it seemed to replace the hole in his heart left by the outdoorsmanship he was missing from the Park. Dillon wasn’t stupid: he knew there would be an adjustment from rural to urban, and that he’d be a lone wolf for a while once he was separated from the old pack. What he didn’t realize was just how hard it would be to find a new one. Nobody ever said anything outright rude or hostile, but, well, even in the most cosmopolitan cities, integration between the supernatural and the mundane was patchy and imperfect. It seemed like everyone he ever met treated him either with patronizing fetishization or barely-concealed suspicion and disgust. Dillon wasn’t naturally thin-skinned, but the isolation and dislocation scraped him raw, and so things like this stung, and made it hard to make friends. He found it even hard to talk to his classmates about the work they were doing together—living in different worlds, how was Dillon supposed to even talk to them?

It was walking to that class one day, that Dillon was feeling particularly sorry for himself. Tail low, swinging dully, ears pinned down to his head, a whine escaped his throat as he choked back tears. Maybe this all was a mistake. Maybe he should just go home. Sure, he wouldn’t really have much of a future back at the rez, but at the very least it would be better than this…

Dillon exhaled, and wiped his eyes with his hoodie sleeve, trying to calm himself down and snap out of his depressed funk. It would be okay. He just had to be tough, like his brothers and sisters who had made this same move in the past. He could do it, he just had to breathe and focus on the good.

When he opened his eyes, however, he wasn’t my focusing on anything like that. Everything had changed around him.

Walking on autopilot while in his cloud of sadness, he must have stumbled into a new part of town, somewhere he hadn’t seen before—oddly old-style, like something from a historical district in a tourist town. It was odd, since he’s walked through this neighborhood hundreds of times, and never once did he notice this weird market square.

Dillon sniffed the air. Suddenly, his ears and tail stood up on their ends, goosebumps of adrenaline and fear rippling up and down his body. This was not a normal part of the city. Every nerve in his body was screaming that something about this place was off. In fact, it reminded him nothing so much as the Park… and with his instincts taking over, he began to prepare for the sort of thing he might have to deal with back home.

Staring ahead and around at full alert, growling and snarling and showing his fangs with the sudden terror, Dillon’s hand slowly reached back to his backpack, where he had some heavy textbooks he could put between himself and an Anomaly, as well as a serrated survival knife—not much against one of those damn monsters, but Dillon knew to take whatever advantage you could in a fight, and you couldn’t (or at least shouldn’t) carry a big hunting gun in the city, like what you would typically start off with.

But then, hand hovering over the zipper of his bag, he sniffed the air again, and suddenly stopped. Slowly, his hands returned to his side, and the sharp, dangerous snarl disappeared from his face, replaced with an expression of utter confusion.

There was no menacing hint of sulfur or ozone, no subsonic growl or hiss of any evil monster from the unknown beyond. It felt oddly calm, inviting—mischievous, maybe, but in a good-natured way. In that way, it was totally unlike a Nightmare Mountain Anomaly. It still felt “off”, but in a benign, playful way, which allowed Dillon to relax a little bit and drop his thoughts of imminent violence.

Now, though, his curiosity was thoroughly piqued.The werewolf slowly approached the tent, eyeing it up and down carefully, gleaming gold eyes settling on the sign and narrowing.
“ ‘Fortunes, omens, terrible advice,’—heh, that’s funny,” Dillon muttered, reading it aloud. “ ‘No refunds, no… crying? No couples?’ What the hell sort of…”
He trailed off. The sound of conversation and the powerful scents of incense and burnt sugar danced out the tent flaps. Slowly, carefully, ears perked up and tail raised in alert, Dillon stepped into the frame of the tent.



What he found inside was a true menagerie. An assortment of diverse characters were inside at their tables: fairies, witches, some kind of masked cyborg, even a panting pug dressed as Zoltar (with whom he quickly exchanged a nod of canine understanding). The people milling about inside were just as exotic and strange. Scattered across the tables were numerous bits and pieces of occult paraphernalia—including some charms that looked and smelled suspiciously similar to those he saw in the window of a magic shop recently… An amused, open-mouth smirk slowly grew on Dillon’s face as he surveyed the scene. Was this a ren faire he didn’t hear about or some shit? Whatever it was, it was definitely entertaining, and behind his jeans Dillon’s bushy dark tail began to wag.

"Come in. Come in, my child. We mustn't lurk in doorways. It's rude. One might question your upbringing."

Briefly, Dillon’s smile flashed into an infuriated snarl, and his eyes narrowed into a glare. Already in a sensitive, sour mood, he didn’t take the admonishment well at all.

Saying shit like that about someone’s past for no reason makes me question your upbringing, bitch—

Luckily, that hostile thought remained unspoken, and Dillon immediately felt regret at his extreme internal reaction. He was intruding into their thing and loitering in the way, after all. The… human? probably didn’t mean anything by it. He took a sharp breath and stepped inside, ears folding down with nervousness and a bit of shame, though his tail still wagged with the excitement of the thing.

“S-Sorry…” he said, to no one in particular, stepping forward and scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “Why no couples? Do you give relationship advice? I could use something for that, like, some tips, or a prediction… I’ve been kinda, I dunno, lonely out here, so…”

Dillon blinked, and the ridge of his face reddened slightly with embarrassment—evidently his loneliness was even worse than he thought, now he was just blabbing his anxieties out into the open air to total strangers. Trying to restore some dignity, he folded his arms with a slight canine huff, and awaited a response, tail still waving behind him…

 

[Jumbled]

Max finds himself nudged by one of the ducks into an eccentric partition. The whole area reminds him of his grandma's trinket shelves. When he sits amongst the pillows, he sinks in. He's a little stiff, a lot awkward. He takes a moment to just examine the paper guitar pick he's handed.

Amber irises flick up to Vedma when she tells him to play. 'With a paper pick?' He's hesitant, but.. He shifts to sit up and gets his guitar out. It's acoustic, old and well loved. There's an energy around it, obvious to the tellers in the tent if nobody else. This instrument has been owned once before him. He thinks for a moment, then starts to play a gentle tune.

He's surprised when the pick holds steady, as if it were real. Then he glaces up from the strings, taken by the colors. 'Magic. Real magic.' He exhales. He watches the crystal ball as the teller manipulates it, fascinated by every step of the process. Her words catch his attention, causing a soft red to drown out the freckles on his face. He pauses his playing to reach for the mug, fingers freezing momentarily when he notices the music keep playing without him. He cradles the mug in his hands, staring down into it for a moment. 'It smells familiar...'

He looks up to her again. "W-well, um..." She kind of already answered it, didn't she. We only learn songs once they're played. "Maybe.. If I do go for it, regardless however it turns out.. Will we learn and grow from each other?" He glances back into the cup, then at the paper pick held between his knuckles. "My step-mom told me that, even if you lose someone, to hold onto all you've learned with them so it's harder to regret. I guess.. I want some assurance that I won't have regrets, even if the outcome isn't what I may hope for."

Vedma Rozanov

.

.

“Regrets are for tattoos and hand grenades.” Vedma said without wavering. That was not how the saying went at all, but she was so confident, she didn’t skip a beat. “People will always learn and grow from other people. We are weeds. Like plant. We drink the water, we soak the sun. We die if we get buried in snow—too cold. Every year we shed and grow new flowers and chin hairs, like roots.” She nodded at her own words, agreeing with herself. So wise, Vedma, yes.

“People are like dirt,” Vedman drank, then continued. “Sometimes full of nutrients that help person thrive. Sometimes full of toxins that suffocate and force you to repot or skip a few seasons before you try again. But people—like plant—are strong. Unless cat chomps you. Then you cry and shrivel and everyone is sad.”

Standing up, Vedma dusted off her colorful dress and walked around the table. “Seed in pot will never sprout if it isn’t exposed.” She thumbed through books and stopped as they parted in a ‘v’ shape, then fished out a small pouch. “You trade cow for magic beans now.” Vedma laughed a hearty cackle as she waved a little bag of seeds at Max. “A joke! It’s funny!” She walked over and touched his shoulder, a small freckle disappeared from his forearm to some place unknown—painless and impossible to see.

“Now you go, open your paper when you’re feeling low. It will help.” Vedma gave Max the pouch and moved his cup out of the way so he could pack up and go.

The Guitar Pick Unfolded

 

[Chele]

Cordelia watched the neko leave with open reluctance, gaze lingering on the empty space she had vacated.

Then her attention drifted.

So many bodies. So many little stories wandering into the tent, ripe and restless. She had expected amusement tonight, but not to be spoiled for choice. That was when her eyes settled on Sera.

Watching.

The woman looked practical. Capable. Bored in the way people become when life has already disappointed them too many times. Cordelia studied her, wondering how much effort it would take to open her up...

A soft hum escaped her throat. The shadows along the table stirred, coiling lazily up Cordelia's arm like something waking from it's slumber.

"You like her?" She murmured to no one, glancing down at her palm as the darkness seeped back into itself obediently.

Then she was gone.

Cordelia reappeared behind Sera without hurry and without sound, arm sliding easily through the redhead's as though they had arrived together.

"There you are," she breathed, voice warm and close.

The scent of apple clung to Sera like a bright, ordinary thing that didn't belong here. She breathed the scent in with interest, eyes flicking briefly to the knife at her belt.

"Mm," Cordelia hummed. "Practical. Prepared." A faint smile. "I do hope you didn't bring any more apples. The ducks get terribly bold." Fingers tightened just enough to guide rather than ask. "Come, come," Cordelia murmured.

She steered Sera toward the table. "Let me tell your fortune." The shadows began to withdraw as they approached, revealing neatly stacked tarot cards and a careless pile of bones, pale and waiting. "You look like a woman with questions she pretends not to have."

Cordelia leaned over Sera's shoulder once she was seated, breath brushing at her ear; cool and intimate. "What would you like to know," she whispered, fingertips tracing lightly along the line of Sera's jaw, "before you decide you never should've asked?"

[/div][/div][/div]

Maybe it was because she'd been too busy looking at the fabric of the tent's roof, but she had completely missed that someone was actually inside. So, when the voice was heard, it stopped her languid steps forward. Her eyes pulled toward where she believed it was coming from, but by the time time her gaze fell in that direction, there was no one there. It sent her mouth pulling to the side. A single brow lofted.

"Like who?" There was confusion in her voice, but also intrigue.

The sudden feeling of an arm slipping through her own caused her heart to leap up into her throat. A wheezed out breath barely made it past her lips as she was pulled by the woman who had just seemingly appeared beside her. "Ducks, huh?" While being moved forward, she would turn her head to peek over a shoulder in hopes she'd see one, but no such luck. Being guided toward a table. The chair nearest her would be sat upon which had her able to look over the various oddities that were scattered across the table. Reluctantly, she put her hands in her lap, to keep herself from touching one of them.

"Fortune teller, huh? Believe I've heard rumors about you types."

Fingers of her left hand curled, her right hand lightly gripping over them. She put her elbows onto the table, chin rested atop of her her hands. A bit of a whimsical look coming across her features. A half smirk rested on full, light red lips. "Was it the clothes that gave it away? Or me voicing that I was hopeful I got transported to a new life? Can you guys do that?" Wouldn't it be grand? Doubtful, but still a nice thought.

The sudden breath on her ear, as those words were spoken, sent lips thinning for a brief moment. So many questions that she could ask, but which was the right one? The finger that ran down her jaw caused her to lift her chin off her top hand so she could reach to rub the spot where the finger had stroked. "Tickled a little bit," she grumbled low.

"Anyway, the question." Her eyes looked upward, as he brain ran through all of life's questions. Some just were a bit too in depth. Others were easily answered without the need of a fortune teller. "I mean, I could ask if I was going to die but we're all going to die anyway," she murmured absent mindedly, talking to herself. "Oh. Oh!"

Both her hands came down with a light slap against the top of the table causing some of the bones to shift and a tarot card or two to slightly move. "Oops. Sorry about that. I think I got it. I have a job coming up. Babysitting, basically. Nothing all that stressful." There was a pause before she'd lament, "Just a princess type who needs looking after." She cleared her throat slightly, then continued. "I just want to know if it'll lead to a more fructuous life, when it's all said and done. Presuming I can actually keep her alive from whatever perceived threat there's believed to be."

 

[MioBrave]

Vedma Rozanov

.

.

“Regrets are for tattoos and hand grenades.” Vedma said without wavering. That was not how the saying went at all, but she was so confident, she didn’t skip a beat. “People will always learn and grow from other people. We are weeds. Like plant. We drink the water, we soak the sun. We die if we get buried in snow—too cold. Every year we shed and grow new flowers and chin hairs, like roots.” She nodded at her own words, agreeing with herself. So wise, Vedma, yes.

“People are like dirt,” Vedman drank, then continued. “Sometimes full of nutrients that help person thrive. Sometimes full of toxins that suffocate and force you to repot or skip a few seasons before you try again. But people—like plant—are strong. Unless cat chomps you. Then you cry and shrivel and everyone is sad.”

Standing up, Vedma dusted off her colorful dress and walked around the table. “Seed in pot will never sprout if it isn’t exposed.” She thumbed through books and stopped as they parted in a ‘v’ shape, then fished out a small pouch. “You trade cow for magic beans now.” Vedma laughed a hearty cackle as she waved a little bag of seeds at Max. “A joke! It’s funny!” She walked over and touched his shoulder, a small freckle disappeared from his forearm to some place unknown—painless and impossible to see.

“Now you go, open your paper when you’re feeling low. It will help.” Vedma gave Max the pouch and moved his cup out of the way so he could pack up and go.

The Guitar Pick Unfolded

Max's brow furrows at first, then he listens. Her words sound silly but, somehow they make a lot of sense. He finally takes a sip from his coffee while she continues. Perfect amounts of bitter. Perfect amounts of sweet. Just like his boy makes it for him at the cafe...

He looks up again, actually chuckling at her joke. He nods, taking a moment to stare at the paper pick in his hand again. He tucks it against his palm as the music finally fades. He places his guitar away and stands, pulling the case back over his shoulder.

"Thank you. Time to go.. Plant some roots, I guess?" He smiles sheepishly, a light blush on his face just from the frazzled thought of confessing.

He holds the paper tight in his grasp, taking one more look over the menagerie of things. Then he turns and leaves the tent. He won't open it now, and maybe not for a while.. When he does, he'll probably realize what he has to do, and he'll laugh at least a little.